


maybe you've fallen down and maybe you just took the long way home

by notthebigspoon



Series: down here in the atmosphere [1]
Category: Baseball RPF, Warrior (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guys live in eachothers pockets. It's the nature of the game. They get to talking and they pair up. Everybody has somebody. Except Hunter hasn't seemed to manage finding his somebody with the Giants yet.</p><p>Title taken from A Day To Be Alone by One Less Reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe you've fallen down and maybe you just took the long way home

**Author's Note:**

> So... I was bored out of my mind while a family member was having minor surgery today and wrote this on a tiny notepad scavenged from the hospital's guest services. I had lonely Pence on the brain, so boom.
> 
> A few handy bits of knowledge:
> 
> Frank Campana is a character from the movie [ Warrior](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warrior_%282011_film%29). It's not much of a crossover yet but Frank and Tommy, and possibly Brendon, will be making (much) more substantial appearances in future installments of this as well as Stick Em Up.
> 
> Theriot's injuries and recovery are a reference to the [ Stick Em Up](http://archiveofourown.org/series/24442) series. This series is going to fall into the same universe as Stick Em Up. If you're not inclined to read that, although it'd be nice if you did, here's it in a nutshell: Theriot gets the overloving shit beat out of him in an illegal cagefighting match and in addition to physical injuries, also has longlasting symptoms of a severe concussion.
> 
> Finally: [ BATTLE!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xWpA-2-KdDo) One of the most hilarious things I have ever seen. It's from the movie Michael starring John Travolta.

Guys live in eachothers pockets. It's the nature of the game. They get to talking and they pair up. Everybody has somebody. Except Hunter hasn't seemed to manage finding his somebody with the Giants yet.

It's not that any of the guys seem to actually dislike him. It's more that they have their own buddies already and their own shit to deal with. The new guy is a byline. Up until the minute that Melky nudged him back out for an ovation, he hadn't known if they were even noticing him. Granted, a home run at the time he got it is hard to miss but still.

He'd been traded without warning. He's allowed to be paranoid and irrational.

The fact that Shane was traded is a small balm. Hunter doesn't think that he's ever going to get over being thrown aside the way that he was, insignificant, worthless. He goes into the series in LA ready to embrace the Dodger hatred wholeheartedly.

When Shane sees him in the tunnels, he looks away. That's the exact moment he stops being Shane, a guy who swore he loved Hunter and had promised that a divorce was just around the corner. That's the moment when he becomes Victorino, a man playing for a team Hunter now hates deeply, a man that makes Hunter's skin crawl and causes bile to rise up in his throat.

He knew it was trouble. Frank had warned him. Don't fuck around with a married guy, don't be that dirty little secret. Cheaters are liars that don't keep their promises. And maybe that was coming from someone who had been burned that way himself, but Hunter hadn't listened. He should have. Frank is the smartest guy he knows, kind and honest to boot, a firm believer in second chances.

Hunter wishes he would have realized that then.

When he gets home from the airport, he finishes unpacking his apartment. He doesn't feel like doing anything but he doesn't feel like sleeping either. They swept LA beautiful, he should be riding the high of that win. But he's alone and that's all that he can focus on. He's alone in his generic apartment with its bland paint job and the crappy furniture he'd picked up second hand until he figures out where he's going to be after this season ends. He goes to sleep in a squishy bed, but there's no comfort because he goes alone. The only person he says good night to is his goldfish. Steve and Tony don't say it back.

He gets to the clubhouse early the next day. It's nothing new, by now everyone kind of expects him to be there before most of the other players arrive. They chalk it up to a strong work ethic and that's not exactly wrong. But it's not all of it. The other part of it is because he can't stand being alone any longer than he has to be.

The clubhouse is mostly empty, a scattering of trainers and staff. Crawford is in the weight room with Theriot. Theriot's recovery has been touch and go, as Hunter understands it. One step forward and two steps back. Supposedly its mostly a mental thing. Memory issues and confidence issues. It's really none of Hunter's business but what caused it, the underground MMA fighting, ignites his curiosity, mostly because of Frank.

His phone ringing makes both of them jump and stare at him. He blushes, mumbles a sorry and slinks back into the clubhouse. He sits in front of his locker, fishes his phone out of his pocket and eyes the screen. Speak of the devil. Frank.

“Hey Campana. What's up?”

“Was gonna ask you, I've barely heard from you since you were traded. Nice job in LA by the way.”

“We didn't suck.” Hunter agrees, grinning. “How's Tommy?”

“He's training. I'm trying to talk him into competing again. He could be amazing. But it's slow going. You remember how hard it was just getting him to let me work with him.”

“Yeah, but it was worth it, wasn't it? You guys got all domestic and fluffy and shit. How's the cohabitation going, by the way?”

The day Tommy had moved in with Frank, Hunter had helped him. There wasn't much to move but he also wasn't going to pass up an opportunity for A, free pizza and B, watching the great Frank Campana blush like a newlywed.

“He still can't cook. But he cleans up after himself. Cleans a lot, really. The place is spotless most of the time. Don't know if that's the military thing or all the years of having to take care of his mom and himself both.” Frank says it slowly, like he's going over it in his mind again. He probably is. Frank's brain has two settings, business and Tommy Riordan. 

Hunter hums, rubbing his forehead. “Still doesn't tell you much?”

“You know him, Hunter. He's not a talker, especially if you push him. I take what he gives me and that's the best I can do. We're making progress, anyways. As long as I stay off his back, he kind of opens up a little at a time. He's getting better at having a boyfriend.” Frank chuckles. “Oh, speaking of that, guess what he took me out to get the other night?”

“No idea. What?”

“My very own Hunter Pence Phillies bobblehead. Brought it to the gym, it's sitting on my desk right now.”

“Dick.” Hunter mutters, but he laughs. He's missed this. He hasn't gotten to talk to his friends near enough lately. He feels another stab of loneliness, if only because this is reminding him what he had to leave behind in Philadelphia. He sighs. He's pathetic.

“Hey... Hunter, are you doing okay?” Frank asks. A worrier and also psychic. That's Frank.

“Yeah, fine. Just... guess I've been living inside my own head since joining up with the Giants. Adjusting. Just... difficult is all.”

“If you need me, you call me, okay? Just because I don't see you all the time doesn't change anything. You're still my friend and if you try to drop me just because you're a hot shit California boy now, I'll fly out just to kick your ass. Okay?”

Hunter blinks, hard. Takes a moment to hate himself for being so emotional and weak. For needing this so badly, the knowledge that he was important to _somebody_. Still, it isn't the lowest Frank has ever seen Hunter at. That helps, a little bit. He clears his throat and croaks a weak thank you.

“Don't mention it. You're one of mine, Pence.”

“I'm done dancing for you Campana.”

“No you're not.”

“No, I'm not. Later Frank.”

“Later kid.”

When the call drops, Hunter stares at the display and sighs. He presses it to his forehead for a moment before stashing it in his locker. He changes into shorts and a t-shirt, grabbing his ipod and heading onto the field. 

He falls into a jog, running the diamond with no company except Shinedown filling his ears. The only problem with running is that it makes him think. His mind runs through reasons why it's been so difficult to find a place for himself. It hasn't even been a month yet but he feels like he should at least be trading words that aren't about the game in the clubhouse or dugout with _someone_.

Maybe he's not extending himself enough. He hadn't in Philly. He'd found Frank's gym in his first few weeks there. He'd paid a membership and then hung around because Frank was just that good of a guy. He'd gotten to know Brendon when he'd started training there for Sparta and finally Tommy when he'd been released from his short stay in Leavenworth. He'd been friendly with his teammates but when he already had friends, he didn't really need to make a lot of the team, or he hadn't felt so at the time. The only one he got close to was Victorino and that had ended in disaster.

The more he thinks on it, the less sense it makes and the dumber he feels. When he sees they're starting to set up for BP, he decides to get out of the way, go shower and dress for the game. He turns and jogs through the field, beelining for the dugout. There's a sound barely audible over his music and he plucks an earbud out, leaning over with his hands on his knees while he takes a breath. He tilts his head up. Pagan. And... he's staring at Hunter.

“Um... what?”

“BATTLE!”

Pagan is standing with a fist to his chest that he then raises in the air. His stance kind of makes Hunter think of Cain's victory punch. But then he's slowly circling Hunter and stopping in front of him. He's twenty yards away until suddenly he's not anymore. His legs are pumping and he's running full speed into Hunter and oh.

Battle. Hunter remembers now.

Unfortunately he comprehends it just as Pagan tackles him to the ground. His bulk lands square on top of Hunter, making him grunt as all the wind surges out of his lungs. He's dazed and for a minute, he doesn't move, doesn't say anything. Then there's a burst of laughter that brings him back to himself. He stares up at Pagan and just shakes his head. Two can play at this. He closes his eyes and drops his head back. “I... am completely happy right now.”

“You _got_ it!” Angel declares, looking completely delighted.

They're interrupted by a shout from Bochy. “Pagan! Stop molesting Pence and both of you get off the field!”

“But what if he likes me molesting him?” Angel yells over his shoulder, grinning before looking down at Hunter. “Well, Pence? Do you like me molesting you?”

There's a right answer for this. He's sure that he's supposed to joke and wink and say oh baby or something like that. But he doesn't. He freezes and stares at him, biting his lip and trying to find words that just won't seem to come. This is bad, so bad. Because he promised himself that he'd learned his lesson after Victorino. Messing around with teammates would only create complications.

Pagan stares at him before slowly getting up. Hunter can't read his expression but he doesn't really try to either. He scrambles to his feet and books it across the field into the dugout. He almost knocks Affeldt and Lopez over in his scramble but he doesn't stop to apologize. He just wants to take a shower and dress for the game.

He actually manages that. He goes out for the warm up and gets his BP time in. He tries to retreat as far inside his head as possible, keeps his head down and his shoulders around his ears. They're good at not acknowledging him so far and he's hoping it holds true. He does. He falls back any time someone tries to draw him into a conversation and keeps his eyes on his feet. As soon as he's done with BP he sits in the corner of the dugout with a cup of water.

Just like he'd told Frank, he's been living inside his head. He's in so deep this time that he doesn't notice Pagan until he's standing right over him, staring down at Hunter with an unreadable expression on his face. “So.”

“I'm sorry, okay? It was... I'm not... look, you're fine. I'm not a- nothing'll happen, okay? I'm not going to mess with you. Just please don't tell anyone.”

“I will not tell anyone... as long as you go to dinner with me. Tonight. After the game.”

Hunter's head snaps up and he stares at Pagan. He's smiling and he looks hopeful, without a hint of guile on his face. Hunter looks around in a moment of panic, wondering if this is some sort of trick but there's no one in sight. He sits up, takes a deep breath. He shouldn't, but it's Pagan... Pagan the GQMF that told him about the victory jump and is always bopping Hunter on the head with his glove. Hunter takes a deep breath then nods, just the slightest bit, choosing his words carefully since the dugout and the space around it is starting to fill up.

“Yeah. After the game.”

Pagan's smile is so bright it's blinding. He bops Hunter on the head with his glove before jogging off to to give Blanco a noogie. He throws his head back and his mouth is open wide, laughing long and loud. Hunter's stomach twists and he feels his heart clench in his chest.

“This is a bad idea. It's stupid. S'only gonna end in tears. Remember Victorino? Remember how he ripped your heart out of your chest and stomped it into pieces? Remember that?” Hunter hisses at himself, jaw clenched before closing his eyes and burying his face in his hands. “Why don't I care?”


End file.
